


for years, i wandered (an oasis in this desert)

by mystarsandmyocean



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: First Meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:49:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystarsandmyocean/pseuds/mystarsandmyocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She stays with him, the girl and her smile.  A reminder of a place long missed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for years, i wandered (an oasis in this desert)

Tonight’s mission is easy. 

 

(No acting, no torture.  Just death, quick and simple.  That, he now knows how to do.)

 

And Waller’s even given him the night once he's finished.  (Wiping the blood off his hands, erasing all fingerprints from the room).  She’s generous like that. 

 

He snarls at his drink. “Give an inch,” she’d taunted, “and you’ll take a mile, Mr. Queen.”

 

Give an inch, he thought, and he’d garrote her throat.  Or stick her full of arrows – his own personal pincushion. 

 

He dreams of both. 

 

(Not really.  If he dreams, it’s of Shado, Slade, the island.  Sara, forever drowning, and his family, forever out of reach. 

 

He’d rather dream of blood.)

 

A figure jostles into him; citrus and honeysuckle wafts beneath his nose. 

 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.  I didn’t spill your drink, did I?  I can buy you a new one if I did, unless it was expensive; in that case, I’m really sorry, but all I have is three hundred Bahts – I think that’s the right exchange?  I’ve only been here a few days, I just graduated, which you really don’t need to know, I’m sorry, three, two, one…”

 

Oliver stares at her, all blonde and pretty in pink (Thea’s favorite movie; they’d watched it a hundred times).  “Don’t –” he coughs, his voice hoarse from days of silence, “Don’t worry about it.”

 

She beams at him; the outline of her smile clear through the dark lenses of his glasses.  “So what can I get you?”

 

The corners of his lips curl up.  He’s missed conversation.

 

“That was not a pick-up line.” She flushes; his lips curl up more.  He should be offended, but on her, it’s – cute, almost?  Guileless.

 

He’s tired of lies. 

 

“Not that you’re not attractive,” she continues, waving her hands, “I mean, I can’t really tell, with the glasses; ugh, ignore me, three, two, one…”

 

“What’s your name?” he asks before he can think, then curses.  It’s not like he can give her his in return. 

 

She cocks her head to the side.  That – definitely cute.  “Felicity Smoak.”  The flush returns.  “That’s completely against guidebook rules; I hope you’re not a serial killer or something…” 

 

He has to hold himself back from recoiling.  Not a serial killer, no.  But she’s not far off. 

 

“Not that you look like one, I mean, though I don’t think serial killers are supposed to fit a certain profile?  I mean, I guess they do, that’s why they have profilers, psychology was really not my thing at school.”

 

She trails off; silence fills the gap between them. 

 

He clenches his drink.  Killer, he thinks.  Remembers the body hidden upstairs. 

 

He’s supposed to say something now, right?

 

“School?” he rasps. 

 

“I just graduated,” she announces, beaming again.  “This is my graduation trip before I start work.  I always wanted to travel and QC was really generous with the starting bonus, so I thought, why not?”

 

The room spins; he swallows, glares it back into focus.  He killed someone tonight.  When did that become easier than this conversation? 

 

He’s had plenty of opportunities this last year to send a message home.  To escape even. 

 

It’s never felt as in reach as this moment.  How easy would it be?  To take off the glasses and show this girl his face? 

 

To let her lead him back home?

 

(He’d made a deal, though.  Three years of service, and in exchange, his father’s dying wish. 

 

His father? 

 

Or home?)

 

He asks her about her job at QC instead.  Listens to her babble, lets the sounds and memories of home wash over him, a reminder that will have to hold him for now. 

 

At the end of the night, his phone buzzes against his thigh.  Time’s up.  (He always, always has too much, except for when there’s never enough.)

 

“I – have to go,” he sighs, his smile fading.  (He’d thought it lost until tonight.)

 

“Oh,” she breathes, listing her head to the side, her body following.  Maybe he should walk her back to her room? 

 

His phone buzzes again.  Waller calls.  (He’s not some damned dog.)

 

He leans in, presses his lips against her cheek.  Citrus and honeysuckle fill his nose.  “Thank you, Felicity.”

 

Before she can answer, he walks away, losing himself in the crowd.

 

(Years later, she leads him home anyway.) 


End file.
